


Stages of Being Without

by Rinkafic



Series: Crossovers [9]
Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 13:42:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rinkafic/pseuds/Rinkafic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike copes with the aftermath of the events of Not Fade Away,  the Angel series finale.</p><p>Originally written for the help_japan auction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stages of Being Without

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rheasilvia (Sylvia)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sylvia/gifts).



_{Deny it if you will}_  
It was over. 

Spike winced and twisted his neck first one way, then the other, causing an audible crack to sound out across the now silent street. Around him were the scattered remnants of Wolfram and Hart’s champions; an arm here, a tentacle there, a severed head dangling from a streetlight above, dripping blood down to pool in a small puddle on the curb.

He dropped his sword down with a clang against the pavement as realization set in; it was over. And he was still standing. He had survived yet another apocalypse. This was entirely unexpected; he had not thought to see the night out when he had taken up his weapon and gone out to face the horde at Angel’s back. He patted blood soaked hands down the front of his jacket, sneering at the myriad of holes in the expensive Italian leather. He seemed solid enough, vampiric healing already sealing up the holes in his flesh, so he assumed he was not a ghost.

He scratched his head as he regarded the carnage around him. Already the scavengers were creeping from the shadows, stealing away with the makings of a right merry feast. William the Bloody still stood. “Well, I’ll be buggered.”

 

True to form, predawn LA quickly began the process of absorbing the paranormal disturbances of the night before. Most “normal” humans would ignore that which they could not comprehend, yet again, and carry on with their daily life. A street washer-sweeper truck rumbled past Spike, forcing him to jump aside, as he slowly headed back towards the alley to see if any of the others had survived the night.

He limped between the buildings to see that Illyria was sitting atop the dumpster at the back of the alley, knees drawn up to her chest, chin resting on them as she stared at Spike’s limping approach.

“Gunn is gone. A vampire,” she said flatly, without preamble or any attempt to couch the news.

“Where’s Angel?” That was where his concern truly lay; with Angel’s fate. He had expected Gunn’s death and was not surprised by Illyria’s telling of it; the man was bleeding out before the fight had even gotten properly underway.

Illyria pointed up and to the east. “The dragon. I heard the jaws snap, the crunch of bone, Angel screamed, and then went limp. Then a spearman below hurled a carved spear, it struck true. I think that I saw dust in the air, as it flew away to the east.”

“No.” Spike whispered. It couldn’t be true. He’d only done all this; he’d only stayed here all this time to be near Liam … Angel. And now, he was dead? 

“I saw. I heard. I speak the truth,” Illyria replied calmly. The blue bitch barely had a scratch on her. And Angel was dead?

Shaking his head, Spike wondered aloud, “What do I do now?” 

“You should seek the safety of darkness, vampire; the sun rises soon.” Illyria recommended. “I shall not remain here. I grow weary of Los Angeles.” She uncurled and gracefully slid down from the dumpster. “Farewell.” And then she was gone, and Spike was alone.

 

 _{Later, there was anger}_  
“Aaarrrgggghhhhh!” The _portusli_ demon cried, hurling itself bodily at Spike. Spike caught it easily and wrestled it to the ground, and promptly sat on the stinky little creature. It wriggled and squealed beneath him, limply flailing out with tentacles and flanges. One foot nearly connected with Spike’s nose, the vampire sneered at it and pushed the offensive red Converse away. He had torn a fingernail on the scaly hide, and he regarded it as he waited for the count.

“Three, two, one! That’s the round!” the referee shouted, which prompted a chorus of disappointed groans, several exclamations of victory from the fortunate bettors, and the sound of coin changing hands. Demon coin gave such a satisfying clank, not like human paper money

Spike slowly climbed to his feet, then turned and hauled the infuriated _portusli_ up after him, setting it back on sneakered feet, where it wobbled unsteadily when Spike removed his hands. “All right there, buddy?”

“Get your hands off me, bloodsucker! I curse you! I curse you, may your soul never find a moment’s joy, may your body never find ease, may you search forever and never find love.” The curse was traditional for the creature’s kind, when you had one that worked, why change it? As Spike watched the _portusli_ waddle away, he remembered another time, when another _portusli_ has hurled the same words his way. 

“… never find love?” Angelus said mockingly, wrapping an arm around William’s shoulders and pulling him close. “Too late. Far too late. Yer curse fizzles, little one, I already found me love. And he gives me plenty of easing of me body, I tell ye true!” Angelus chortled gleefully as the offended _portusli_ made a rude gesture and scampered off. “Let’s go have us a bit of joy, shall we, William me lad? We’ll really spoil that curse!”

A few days later, Angelus had met up with another hurler of curses, a gypsy far more proficient at her spell weaving, and that one had stuck, burdening Angelus with a soul once more. It was not until Spike had regained his own soul, many years later, that he finally understood Angel’s centuries of torment. Along with that understanding had come rushing a plethora of emotions, emotions he had been blissfully unaware of while unburdened with conscience, at the forefront, love. Love first for the slayer Buffy, and then when he met up with him again, love for his old friend and comrade Angel. Both times, unrequited and unreturned. 

And now, there was no chance that Angel would ever, could ever, love him back, because he was gone. Turned to dust. And Spike was alone.

The rage came over him and Spike snarled and turned to the ringmaster, gesturing impatiently for another challenger to be sent into the wrestling ring. These days, he found wrestling to be more challenging, a better outlet for his rage than wild carnage. Wild carnage reminded him of his last night in Los Angeles, and that inevitably reminded him of Angel. Spike preferred not to think of Los Angeles anymore, if he could help it. He preferred to dwell in rage, for now. There would be time enough for despair later.

“And now, the Las Vegas Underground presents, Atoomba the Giant!” the announcer shouted, the voice coming over tinny and distant on the inferior sound system. The crowd roared in approval as the floor shook, vibrating under the footfalls of the giant halmani demon as it approached the ring. 

Spike looked up and up, and up, and smiled. “Oh yeah. Now THAT’S what I’m talking about!” 

This was going to hurt. 

It was going to be glorious.

He gave in to the rage.

 

 _{A bargain attempted}_  
Sitting beneath the flashing neon sign proudly proclaiming “Cat House” in six foot high letters, Spike took a deep draw from the scotch bottle, enjoying the burn. “This is all your fault, Angel!” he snarled, waving the bottle at the lights of the Vegas strip. “You made me into this. You made me care. I should hate you!”

Not for the first time, Spike wondered why it was he that had lived and Angel that had died. After all, Angel had spent far more time trying to make up for the sins of the past. Surely Angel’s soul was more worthy of continuing? Spike had looked into purchasing a spell to turn back time; to stop Angel from going after the dragon. But the expense was beyond his means, and there was no guarantee that changing that one thing would change everything, Angel could very well be cut down by something else during the battle 

“Take me instead,” Spike whispered hopelessly, closing his eyes and tilting his head back against the girder holding up the sign. “Please, take me instead.”

“It doesn’t work that way, Spike,” a kindly voice said near his ear, in a posh accent that Spike recognized, even though it had been months since he had heard it anywhere but in his tormented memories of the past. He opened his eyes and saw Wesley crouched beside him. Wyndham-Pryce was ethereal and semi-transparent and lit from within; it seemed to Spike's drunken eyes.

“Hey, Watcher-boy, you’re all glowly. Doing the Obi-Wan Kenobi thing, are ya?” Spike asked, taking another swig of scotch. He smiled as the cheap rot got slid down, burning all the way, just the way he liked it, one of the reasons he stuck to scotch to get his drunk on.

The apparition of Wesley pulled a wry face and stood. “If it suits you to think so, then yes. Let’s make our nod to pop culture, and then move on, Spike.”

“Let’s do. Drink?” Spike held the bottle out, and then pulled it back. “Nope, I forgot, the dead don’t drink, do they? Sucks being a ghost, don’t it?”

“At times, yes,” the ghost of Wesley replied. “You can’t change things, Spike. To do so would upset the balance. Things must remain as they are.”

“I figured that out, thanks. Can’t blame a bloke for hoping, though. How is it, on the other side?”

“Lonely,” Wesley said wistfully. 

Spike took another drink and waited a bit before he replied, “Lonely here too.”

“Stop trying to change things.” Wesley said, apparently knowing about the trip to the old woman’s shop that morning, which had in turn, probably prompted this visitation.

“I’ll stop meddling, if you promise me something, Wesley-Wan Kenobi,” Spike said. He had already determined that he wouldn’t alter events, but if he could get something out of the ghost by making him think he had not come to that decision as yet, he might as well, right? 

“Promise what?” 

“If you see Angel, on the other side, tell him… tell him… oh, just give him my regards and tell the idiot I miss him.”

The former Watcher nodded and then paused, seeming to consider something before speaking quickly, “Things will get better, I promise Spike, you won’t hurt forever. Damn, now, I’ve said too much, I’m being pulled away. Goodbye, Spike.”

As Wesley faded from view, Spike leaned over and tipped the bottle of scotch over, splashing out a shot’s worth of the liquid in the spot where Wesley had briefly floated; a salute to his fallen comrade. “Fare thee well, Wesley.”

 

 _{Then darkness comes}_  
Having a soul was proving to be a royal pain in the ass, Spike decided. It had turned him into an alcoholic, which was proving to be extremely expensive, given his vampire metabolism and the cost of liquor in Vegas. He’d tried playing the casinos for a while, finagling and conning and schmoozing in order to get his alcohol comp’ed by the various managements, but the cost of gambling to keep up appearances and keep the free booze flowing was almost as high as his original alcohol outlay, so he gave that up and dedicated himself strictly to drinking.

Besides, the masses of blue haired ladies and the tweeting, beeping, chiming and bleeping of the electronic slot machines was nearly driving him mad. He decided he hated casinos. And blue haired old ladies too.

At a shop catering to the Siegfried and Roy crowd, he bought himself a new black leather duster, one with a dragon emblazoned on the back in black and silver sequins, a daily masochistic reminder of Angel’s fall. He couldn’t stop the thoughts of Los Angeles from coming anymore. He determined instead to choose which things to dwell on, while in his drunken stupor. He had a routine. He donned the jacket and remembered the dragon in LA, remembered how Angel had seen it flying over the heads of the horde, had remarked that he wanted to kill it, and had dashed off into the rain with only one backwards glance. 

He had caught Spike’s eye in that last moment, when he had paused in the entry to the alley. In his routine, Spike chose to dwell in that moment next, to remember the slight smile on Angel’s face, the way the excitement had lit his eyes. Angel was so far away from Angelus in that moment, there was no blood lust; that night had not been killing for sport, it had been for the cause, Angel was, in that moment, doing what he had been meant to do, and he had been rejoicing in it.

Spike chose to dwell in that memory for quite a long time. Then he remembered Italy, how he had laughed to himself at the image they must have presented; the two of them haring around the narrow streets on that stupid little Vespa. He remembered the feel of Angel’s arms around him, clinging as he took the curves to quickly, as if one could ever take a curve too quickly on a Vespa! He remembered the press of Angel’s body against his.

That train of thought usually led to several hours of brooding. He brooded very well. He had been absorbing lessons from Angel during the time he had lingered and loitered around at Wolfram and Hart, apparently.

Each night found Spike perched on the edge of his building, just before dawn, daring the sun to come, recklessly willing the morning light to end his torment. Why should he go on? He was alone now. He had lost the love of his life. What was the point?

But each dawn found the rooftop vacant. And each evening, Spike once again donned his coat of misery. Each evening he nodded in greeting to the dragon, his talisman of self torture.

 

 _{Eventually, time heals all wounds}_  
Spike dwelled in the desert for a long time before he began to grow bored of his drunken, sullen, lonely existence in the oasis of false light in the sand. The city of crushed dreams no longer sang her siren song to the wounded vampire. He began to think about moving on. He thought perhaps Italy, he had liked Italy. They had good wine.

He opened his door one evening to find a familiar red-haired witch haunting his doorstep.

“Hullo, Willow .” 

“Hello, Spike. You look like shit.”

“Thanks love, would hate to feel like this and look like a million bucks. Love the hair, I approve of the punk spikes.”

“Of course you do, I stole the look from you. I need your help.” Willow elbowed past him and kicked aside the empty bottles in her path to the kitchen table. She set down a book and opened it, then trailed her fingers down until she came to a passage she wanted then pointed, tapping her finger on the page. “This here, I need you for this, it will save my life, as well as many others.”

Hesitantly, Spike edged over and peered at the words. It was certainly something he could do. He nodded tentatively.

“You’ll have to be sober.” Willow wrinkled her nose at his unkempt appearance and at the trash in the apartment, 95% of which was comprised of empty liquor bottles.

“I can do that. Was getting a little bored anyway. And broke,” Spike replied. Wrestling prize money wasn’t what it used to be, since he’d lost that first flush of rage over the events that had transpired in LA, he wasn’t the bruiser he had been.

“Good. We can be in Barstow long before dawn, get your stuff together.”

Spike picked up the dragon coat, slipped it on, and scooped up a small framed photo of Angel, Wesley, Gunn, and Fred and slipped it into his pocket. Then he turned to face Willow. “Ready.”

“You travel light,” she nodded in approval and closed the book and tucked it under her arm and led him out of the run down rooms.

And so Spike found himself back in California, fighting the good fight with Willow, Xander, Dawn and occasionally even with Buffy, when she came back to the States. 

And Spike found living with his soul bearable, now that he was doing things to assuage the guilt of centuries of demon sin and to distract himself form everything he had lost.

 

 _{What comes after…}_  
The nest of Glotlim redcaps had been almost completely cleared out, a vile job that had required four slayers, a zamboni, and Spike to accomplish. Hefting his blood soaked weapon to his shoulder, Spike shivered at the temperature of the ice rink and tentatively made his way across the bloody ice towards the exit. He was busy watching his feet; his fashionable boots not made for traction on the slick surface, and was not paying much attention to what was in front of him.

“You still know how to swing an axe,” a voice said as he reached solid flooring once more.

Spike looked up into a face he had never, ever thought to see again. He dropped the axe. Shocked silent, Spike thrust out a hand, splaying his fingers across the broad, flannel covered chest before him. Solid. Real. So were the legs tucked into tight blue jeans, when he trailed his other hand down stomach and thigh. Spike fingered the woolen scarf beneath his hand as his mind tried to comprehend what touch was telling him.

There was a wide smile, and dark eyes held amusement as Spike stared, his mouth opening and closing before he finally gasped out, “Angel?”

“Yeah. Yeah, Spike, it’s me.” A warm hand came up and covered Spike’s, pressing it against Angel’s chest. That’s when Spike noticed the difference between them. A heart beat beneath his palm, a living heart.

“You’re alive. You’re really alive!” Spike said in wonderment. “The bloody Shanshu prophecy? Is that what did this?”

“Giles doesn’t think so, at least not entirely. I called him, when I came out of the coma in a hospital in Phoenix and remembered who I was a few months ago. He has several theories about it.” Angel was still holding Spike’s hand as Spike stood trying to take it all in. Angel wasn’t dead. Angel wasn’t at all dead.

“You’re human again.” He could smell it now, now that he was off the ice and his nose wasn’t chilled. He was human, and Spike was still a vampire and that just wouldn’t work. Angel wouldn’t want him, not now. His humanity was too hard won, too long striven for. He could have a normal life now. Spike tugged his hand away and stepped back, though it hurt to do so.

Tilting his head, Angel looked at him oddly, taking a step forward and reaching for Spike’s hand again. “I had a lot of time to think, Spike, at the hospital when I was learning to walk again. I realized a few things, about me, about you, about us. I think I was a little blind, before, for a long time.” 

Spike shook his head back and forth slowly. This was what he wanted, this was what he had dreamed, that Angel would love him back. But not like this, not in this impossible way. “No. Angel. Maybe before, maybe there was chance for it, for us, to work, when we were both still the same, but not now, it wouldn’t work now.” He held his hands out in warding as Angel took another step forward.

“My demon is gone, Spike. We’ll find a way to free you too. I promise. Give me a chance. Give us a chance?” His eyes were hopeful, and he flashed a beckoning grin Spike’s way when he saw Spike wavering. “Giles has the remnants of the Watcher’s Council working on a way to banish vampires forever, to free the host bodies. Come to London with me.” Angel held one hand out, palm up, waiting.

What was there to lose? 

More importantly, look what he might win. 

It was a non-decision, really. Spike reached out and took Angel’s hand, clasping the warm fingers in his own.

It was something to work towards; a new purpose.

 

The Beginning.


End file.
